


John's Girl

by onceinabluemoon13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Jessie's Girl, Jealous Sherlock, Sherlock is not as observant as he thinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceinabluemoon13/pseuds/onceinabluemoon13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets John's new girl friend, Molly Hooper, and wants her for himself. Not to be taken seriously, this was inspired by the song "Jessie's Girl" by Rick Springfield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is one of the first stories I ever wrote (it was published on FF.net in September 2013!), so please forgive any mistakes! I had a blast writing it (I would bring my little notebook to college with me and write between classes), and quite like how it turned out. Don't take this too seriously, as I was inspired when I heard Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" whilst driving one afternoon.

_I play along with the charade_ __  
_There doesn't seem to be a reason to change_ __  
_You know, I feel so dirty when they start talking cute_ _  
_ _I wanna tell her that I love her but the point is probably mute_

Rick Springfield, "Jessie's Girl" _  
_

John brings her to the flat on a Thursday. Sherlock is sorting through his mind palace, deleting information he no longer requires. He has just finished proofreading the file cabinet labeled "Toxins" when he hears his flat mate unlock their door. He pulls himself out of his mind just in time to register an excited female voice accompanying the doctor's. "Wow! This is even nicer than you described!"

He looks up and makes eye contact with a woman, similar in age to himself, with light brown hair and a nervous disposition. The girl is wearing a hideous cherry cardigan over a jumper clearly chosen for comfort over fashion. She looks at him anxiously, obviously waiting for him to say something. John has warned her in advance, then, of his proclivity to deduce a person's life story upon first meeting. He decides not to keep her waiting because she appears as though she may hyperventilate if he does not begin soon. _Pathology textbooks peeking out of her bag, numerous cuts on her hands approximately the size and shape of a scalpel blade, dark circles beneath her eyes indicating lack of sleep. Left hand currently toying with the butterfly pendant around her neck._

"A burgeoning medical student, I see, most likely studying Pathology at St. Bart's, which is where you met John. I surmise your exams are coming up, as you have spent the last few nights studying in the library. You fidget with your necklace when you are nervous because it comforts you and reminds you of your father, who gave it to you. He sacrificed quite a lot to send you to medical school, and you feel indebted to him, so you work harder than your fellow classmates in order to make him proud. Judging by your style of clothing and lack of make-up, you likely grew up without a female role model. I imagine your mother died when you were very young, leaving you to be raised solely by your father. I also see -"

"Sherlock!" John cuts him off, putting his arm around the young woman, tears quickly welling up in her brown eyes. The detective feels a small twinge of guilt, even as he realizes he does not yet know her name.

"May I use the restroom? I think I need to freshen up." Sherlock can barely hear her voice as she quietly speaks to John, staring at the floor to avoid eye contact with the other occupants of the sitting room. Sherlock watches as John directs her down the hall, and the consulting detective shamefully looks at his flat mate when she has locked the door behind her.

"Not good?" he questions the older man.

"No, it bloody well was NOT good, you git! I thought I told you that you don't just go around saying things like that to people. Especially not ones that I care about!"

Sherlock looks up in surprise at this last sentence, thinking back on the encounter. He remembers the smile on both of their faces as they had entered the flat, before he ruined everything, as well as the protective manner in which John had held the girl. His mouth forms an "O" as he pieces the puzzle together in his mind. _This must be John's new girlfriend. And it is serious, considering his reaction to my conclusions. I will need to make amends for my blunder._

"I did not realize her importance to you, John. I will apologize whenever she returns."

"Thank you. Just please don't bring up her parents again. They are still a sensitive subject for her." Sherlock nods his understanding, and the two wait in companionable silence until the bathroom door opens once more. The girl has made an effort to hide her crying spell from the others, but Sherlock sees the evidence and feels another pang of remorse.

He quickly walks up to her and takes her hand as he looks into her eyes. If he feels a spark of electricity flow through his body at the simple touch, he ignores it. "John always tells me how horrible I am at first impressions. If I offended you, I am sorry. That was not my intention."

She stands frozen, as if entranced for a moment, before she comes to her senses and pulls her hand out of his, glancing quickly at John before meeting his blue eyes once more. "I-It's… It's okay," she stutters out. "John warned me, I just... I wasn't quite ready for that." She gives him a small smile before offering him her hand once again. "I'm Molly Hooper. And you were right; I am studying to be a forensic pathologist. Assuming I pass my exams next week, I begin my residency at St. Bart's in August. As far as my relationship with John, however, we have known each other for years. We ran into each other at the hospital and have been catching up."

He shakes her delicate hand and rewards her with a crooked grin of his own. "Well, there's always something. I suspect we will be working together in the future, Miss Hooper. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."


	2. Getting Closer

Molly Hooper becomes an almost permanent fixture at 221B Baker Street over the next several months. John makes an effort to keep her favorite snacks and preferred brand of tea in the cupboard and ignores her protests that it is unnecessary. Sherlock deduces that she likes the silence, so different from the flat that she shares with her brother and one of her friends from university. Because she does not disturb his thinking process, he tolerates her presence. He even makes room on his bookshelves so that she can store some of her books at the flat.

He begins to notice things about her. He catalogues them in his mind palace even though he has no valid reason for doing so. She has a ginger tabby ( _"Toby," she tells him, when he points out the hair on her over-sized jumper. "He's a lot like you, actually," she says jokingly_ ). She likes to stay up to date on the advances in her field and can converse quite intelligently with him when she is not nervously stuttering and twisting her hands. He begins saving journal articles he knows she will appreciate to see the way her face lights up when discussing forensics and pathology.

Sherlock also enjoys being acquainted with someone at St. Bart's. He is no longer required to work with incompetent pathologists that argue with his observations. Instead, they are perfectly happy allowing the happy young woman with the morbid sense of humor to handle the moody detective when he needs to see one of the bodies for a case. Additionally, Molly is extremely giving and sometimes allows him access to the well-equipped lab housed at the hospital. He finds himself seeking out her assistance more often than not when in the lab, even though the logical side of his brain reminds him that he is perfectly capable of running his own samples. He deliberately disregards that part of his mind, telling himself that letting her help gives him more time to focus on his cases.

If he wears his dark purple dress shirt more frequently, it is because he finds it comfortable. It is most definitely NOT because he observes the way her eyes dilate when she sees him in it, or because she stares at him just a moment longer than necessary before asking what he needs.

One evening in early January, he is ruminating over the successful conclusion of their latest case and John is busy typing up his next blog entry. He sees her fiddling once again with the butterfly pendant, staring off into space. "Are you nervous about something in particular?" he asks her, causing her to glance up at him sharply. "You are toying with your necklace again," he says in answer to her unspoken question. John looks up from his computer screen, twisting his head between the two curiously.

Her brown eyes seem lost in thought for a moment before she answers him. "Not really nervous, no. I just… I spoke with Mike Stamford this morning. He says that if I continue doing such a wonderful job at St. Bart's, I might have a job there after my residency is complete." Although she tries to sound nonchalant, her timid smile betrays her excitement, and Sherlock briefly notes how beautiful her brown eyes look when filled with hope before John interrupts his inner musings.

"Really, Molls?! That's brilliant! I knew you could do it!" Sherlock ignores the twisting in his gut when he hears the familiar nickname. He is finding he ignores quite a bit when it comes to Molly Hooper.

"Thanks, John," she answers shyly, smiling at his friend in a way that once again has Sherlock's stomach churning in that increasingly familiar way. He finds himself wanting to make a bitter remark to wipe the happy expression off of both of their faces. Instead, he opts for professional approval.

"From what I have seen, you are perfectly competent, Molly. I doubt you need to be nervous. Besides, I need someone I trust working in St. Bart's morgue." She turns the smile on him this time, a blush turning her cheeks an attractive shade of pink, and Sherlock refuses to meet her eye. He thinks he may say something he regrets if he does. _You are perfect, Molly. They would be crazy not to take you._ Not exactly appropriate to say to a woman while her significant other ( _Your best friend!_ ) is sitting in the room. Or when said significant other was once in the military and can shoot a gun proficiently.

The trio continue to sit in amicable silence until Molly stands up, stretching her arms above her head. Sherlock forces himself not to gawk at the pale expanse of skin left uncovered by her motions. "I should probably be getting back to my flat. Don't want my brother to send out a search party!" she jokes tiredly. "Thanks for a lovely evening. I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock? We still need to run those samples you brought in this morning."

"Yes, I will be at the lab in the morning. Please try not to arrive late again. I do hate to be kept waiting." He cringes at the curt tone of his voice. John glares at him, and Sherlock knows that he will be getting quite an earful after Molly leaves.

"Well, good night, then," she replies cheerfully, used to his constant mood swings by now. She walks over and gives John a kiss on the cheek before waving at him.

"Wait, Molly. Let me walk you home. It's getting pretty late." She gives John a warm smile, and he helps her with her coat before donning his own. Sherlock refuses to move until he hears the door closing downstairs. He walks to the window and watches the couple stroll down the street until they are no longer in sight. He lets out a huff of frustration before storming into John's bedroom and grabbing the gun out of his bedside drawer.

John returns home later to find a furious Mrs. Hudson yelling at a sulking consulting detective and several new bullet holes taking residence in their wall. When Sherlock sees the expression on his friend's face, he resigns himself to a night of admonishment. At least this would keep his mind off of a certain pathologist. Or why it took his flat mate two hours to walk her to a flat fifteen minutes from 221 Baker Street.


	3. The Invitation

Sherlock is hunched over his favorite microscope, examining hairs of different dog breeds for filing in his mind palace, when he hears the door to the lab open cautiously. He recognizes the soft, shuffling footsteps immediately and looks up before consciously deciding to do so.

He is not surprised to see the tiny brunette standing in the open doorway. What do shock him, however, are the tears streaming down her angelic face. _When did I become so sappy?_ he internally berates himself before focusing once more on the crying woman. He shoots off of his stool and hurries over to her, grabbing her shoulders to force her to look at him.

"Molly, what happened? What's wrong? If someone hurt you, Molly, I swear -"

"No, no! It's nothing like that!" she manages to choke out. "Last night, I received my pathologist certification in the mail. Dr. Stamford just hired me full-time here at Bart's." She begins silently weeping again, but this time Sherlock notices her radiant smile. He really should have seen it before, but he was far too distracted by her tears.

He wonders how this woman has managed to captivate him so much that his deductive powers are faltering.

Sherlock is not sure what elates him more – that he will now have his favorite pathologist at Bart's permanently, or that Molly's dreams have finally come true. (Deep down, he knows the answer.) She had mentioned once, when they were collaborating on an experiment testing the rigidity of body tissues after death, that her father had been a patient at St. Bart's when he passed away. He had pretended not to listen as she told him about the kindness that the assigned pathologist had shown her. That was when she had chosen forensic pathology, and why she was so adamant about working in this hospital. He remembers the flash of guilt he felt at the recollection of his initial assessment of her, when he had cruelly taunted her wish to make her father proud.

Before he can stop himself, he has the smaller woman in a crushing embrace, his arms wrapped awkwardly around her waist. After hesitating for approximately 2 seconds, Molly's arms encircle his own body, hugging him just as fiercely. Abruptly, they are both laughing at the happiness of the moment, limbs entangled together.

There is a sense of _rightness_ in this instant he has never felt before, and Sherlock thinks he can hold her like this forever.

"I should probably tell Mark, Mary, and John," she says into his shoulder, still clutching onto him for dear life. At the mention of his friend, Sherlock stiffens and pulls away.

He sees a look of confusion (and hurt?) before he turns back to his microscope. "Yes, I suppose you should." His voice is cold once again, no hint of his earlier joy in his tone. He hears her quiet footsteps as she steps into the hallway to spread her excitement.

"Is John taking you out to dinner to celebrate, then?" he asks indifferently ( _he hopes_ ) when she returns from making the necessary calls.

"No, I think he's working tonight. Why?"

Sherlock mentally curses his flat mate. Surely, it is customary to treat one's girlfriend when she has heard such news? He decides that it is his responsibility to amend his friend's error, telling himself it is friendship, _nothing else_ , that prompts his next question.

"Would you like to celebrate with me, Molly? I know an excellent Italian restaurant."

"Like, a date?" she asks, clearly flustered at the notion, her cheeks taking on that tantalizing shade of pink.

"Of course not. I just thought you would want to commemorate the occasion with exceptional food and a friend."

She stares at him for a moment as if he has grown two extra heads, and then her beautiful smile ( _the one that makes your heart stutter_ , the traitorous, _sentimental_ part of him whispers) returns.

"Of course I would love to go, Sherlock! What should I wear?" She looks down and shuffles her feet in a gesture that should not be as alluring as his body's reaction would suggest.

"Dress in whatever you would like. You look pretty in anything." He does not realize his mistake until the pink flush of her cheeks changes to a darker red. He hastily picks his coat up off of the lab bench to his right and rushes out the door, barely sparing the motionless woman a glance. He makes it halfway down the hallway before realizing he did not arrange a time for their dinner. He pivots and sprints back to the lab.

She is still staring at the spot he had previously occupied, a far-off look on her face, when he sticks his head back through the door. "I will be at your flat precisely at 7 o'clock to collect you." Molly nods her assent, and the detective finds himself hurrying through the hospital's halls once again.

He opts to walk back to Baker Street to clear his head, always a bit hazy after interactions with Molly Hooper.

He cannot hide the grin on his face or the extra spring in his step at the thought of spending an evening alone with the pathologist. It is not until he enters 221B and sees John's laptop resting on the sitting room table that he begins to ponder the consequences his actions may lead to in his relationship with his blogger.


	4. The Flat Mate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write.

Sherlock argues with himself as he dons his dark purple shirt (which he still insists is for his benefit, not Molly's) and snug, black trousers for his dinner with Molly. As many times as he tries to convince himself that his relationship with the pathologist is purely platonic, he finds himself dwelling on aspects of her that friends should not. Her eyes, so deep he believes he could dive into them and never find his way out again. Her lips – not as plump or full as the women with whom he had experimented before proclaiming himself above sentiment and bodily needs, but far more enticing. Most of all, however, he thinks of her intelligence and personality, two traits so uniquely _Molly_ that they have captivated him more than any one else ever has.

He shakes himself from his inner ramblings as he leaves his flat and hails a cab, giving the driver Molly's address, a short 5 minute drive from Baker Street. He retreats to his mind palace at the judgmental look from the man. Although he knows where she lives, he has never been to her flat, and a feeling of nervous anticipation comes to him unbidden.

He is so engrossed, attempting to deduce how she would decorate her living space, that the cab driver has to shout at him several times before he realizes they have arrived. He quickly pays the man and steps onto the street.

The slight shaking of his hand as he knocks on her door astounds him. No one has ever caused such apprehension in him. The door swings open, and Sherlock opens his mouth to spit out a greeting when he suddenly stops in surprise.

Instead of the smiling, timid woman he expects, a blond woman is leaning against the door frame, grinning boldly. She looks him up and down, and the detective fights the urge to squirm under her gaze. He feels a bit like a specimen under a microscope and wonders if this is what the victims of his observations experience. _How on earth do John and Molly put up with this all the time?_

After a moment, the woman nods approvingly, and Sherlock breathes again, relief filling his entire body. She steps aside and gestures for him to come inside the flat. "Mary Morstan, I presume?" he declares as he walks past her, a smug tone in his voice.

She gives him an apathetic look, clearly unimpressed with his deductive prowess. "And you must be Sherlock Holmes. Molly and John have told me all about you." She raises her right eyebrow and challenges him with her eyes. _See? I can do it too._ Sherlock immediately approves of Molly's flat mate. The pathologist has chosen her friends well.

He beats down the smirk threatening to appear on his lips at hearing that Molly has mentioned him and turns to examine the room in which they are standing.

Based on Molly's personality and fashion sense, he had inferred earlier that her flat would most likely contain an eclectic collection of furniture with an inordinate amount of photographs placed everywhere. His hypothesis is not wrong. Colorful throw pillows, ranging from bright pink to sunshine yellow, cover the light brown couch. In contrast, a black leather armchair sits in one corner next to a small table with a reading lamp and a bookshelf crammed haphazardly with a mixture of pathology textbooks, classical literature, and popular novels.

Photo frames cover every surface, and Sherlock can read both women's life stories from these alone. Proudly displayed over the fireplace is a picture of the two women on the day they had graduated from university, both smiling widely as they held up their diplomas for the camera, arms wrapped around each other. Sherlock sees snapshots of their younger years, as well, and cannot help but be drawn to one photograph in particular.

In it, a small, brunette girl, no older than eight years old, is holding onto the hand of a boy a few years older, one of her front teeth missing. Embracing both children are a short, grey-haired man and a rail-thin, sickly woman. Both adults are attempting to smile for the sake of their kids, but something is missing in both of their expressions.

"That was the last picture of the entire family. Her mother died later that year," Mary murmurs softly, breaking into his thoughts. She continues, answering his unspoken question. "Mr. Hooper died in a car accident a month after we graduated. The butterfly pendant was his graduation gift to her." Understanding hits him, and he realizes why the young woman was so upset with his initial observation of her. He wonders if he will ever stop feeling ashamed at that particular memory. Deep down, he knows the answer is no.

He runs his finger over the little girl's face, envisioning the pain she must have felt when her mother died soon after the photo was taken. He gulps quickly, tampering down the emotions attempting to overwhelm him and continues his inspection of the flat.

The room is arranged in a more ordered manner than he had assumed, no doubt Mary's influence. He knows that Molly's organization skills leave much to be desired from his experiences at the hospital. He remembers Molly telling him that her brother had recently proposed to his girlfriend and moved out, explaining the excessive femininity of the space.

From his place in the center of the sitting room, he can see into the kitchen, where an orange cat is lazily licking itself under a practical wooden table. _This must be the infamous Toby._ The cat scrutinizes him for a moment before apparently deciding he is unworthy of further examination and lying back down. Sherlock scoffs. _This cat is nothing like me!_

He finishes his assessment and looks back at Mary. She looks at him as though she knows the thoughts he is trying to hide from everyone, including himself. As if she can read him as easily as he can read other people. His appreciation of her goes up another notch, even as he finds himself terrified of what she might tell Molly. _Or John._

The two are still staring at each other when Molly steps into the room, pulling Sherlock's attention towards her. His mind goes momentarily blank as he takes in her apparel, a yellow sun dress patterned with light pink roses. She has chosen to leave her hair down, a style Sherlock grudgingly admits he prefers on her. Her makeup is light and pleasing, only a touch of mascara and soft pink lipstick.

"Sherlock! Hi! I didn't hear you knock." Her face lights up in a blinding smile, the one that causes his gut to tighten and his mouth to go dry. "I hope you haven't been waiting too long!"

He returns her beam with a half-smirk of his own before dispelling her fears. "Miss Morstan, here, was kind enough to keep me company. She also showed me around part of the flat." He almost misses the look that passes between the two women. Molly glares at the taller woman, who only smirks in response, although the detective is certain they are arguing silently. He tries to work out what they could be squabbling about but decides to let it go. Their dinner reservations are in twenty minutes.

"We had best leave now if we want to make it to the restaurant on time, Molly. I hope we meet again, Mary. It has been… enlightening, to say the least." He holds out his hand to her in a gesture of gratitude for her information, as well as keeping his secret from the pathologist, at least for now.

Her smirk turns into a full-fledged grin as she dips her head in assent and shakes his hand. As he pulls the door open, he notices her focus once more on Molly, giving her a wink before pushing them out the door. His confusion at the motion is short-lived as he becomes distracted by the attractive blush once more staining her cheeks.

 _John's never made her blush like that_ , a part of him mutters conspiratorially. Sherlock pointedly ignores it. No need to ruin the evening before it has even begun.


	5. The Non-Date

Instead of taking a cab, the pair elects to walk to the small restaurant, only a few blocks south of Molly's building. Sherlock observes that his earlier anxiety has disappeared, as if the mere presence of the woman beside him can assuage his panic and calm his mind.

They make small talk as they move through the quiet streets, Sherlock regaling her with a particularly interesting case he and John had worked in which a woman was found murdered in her bedroom with all entrances locked from the inside. She laughs as he tells her that John had begun to believe that a ghost was responsible.

"Can you blame him? I might have entertained the notion myself." He mocks her, before stating his belief that she is not nearly as gullible as John. He begins to think that he can simply be friends with the pathologist, as long as he remembers his flat mate.

Just as he is finishing telling her the story, and how John edited it quite a bit for his blog, they arrive at the restaurant. A round, jovial man ("Angelo, the owner," he whispers to Molly) greets them as soon as they enter the building. He ushers them to a table in the back corner with a candle in the center. Although only a few couples are dispersed throughout the room, their seclusion ensures that they will be free from prying eyes. Molly looks around, mouth hanging open with an amazed expression on her face, until Angelo clears his throat.

"Order anything you would like, madam. Sherlock's guests always eat for free." She smiles sweetly in acknowledgment and thanks him. The owner turns to Sherlock and asks for their wine selection. He chooses a blush that he knows is Molly's favorite, and, looking to Molly to verify, the man scurries off to place the order.

"The Spaghetti Bolognese is the best in the city. I would recommend that, however, if you would rather, the Fettuccine is also divine." She smiles and continues to look through the menu until Angelo returns with their wine. He is pleased when she heeds his advice and orders the Spaghetti Bolognese, and he requests the same.

As they wait for their food to arrive, they munch on bread sticks, and he listens as she summarizes an article she had recently stumbled upon.

"A university in America is studying how bacteria change over time to better help solve crimes! They want to use microbes to help determine time of death, like entomologists use insects! And on top of that, the scientists are trying to figure out to a way to use microbes as an identification tool because people have unique 'microbe fingerprints'!" He once again notes how much he enjoys the way her entire face lights up when she is passionate about something. He quiets the part of his brain that speculates if she could ever look that way about him.

A server brings their food out to them, and the two eat in companionable silence for a while, both enjoying the meal and the company. Finally, Molly sets down her fork and takes a deep breath.

"Sherlock, what is this?" He can tell she has wanted to ask this question all evening. He pretends he does not understand her implication because he is not sure how to answer her real question.

"That is pasta, Molly. It appears you quite enjoyed it, as you still have a fleck of sauce on your left cheek." She quickly grabs her napkin and wipes away the offending dot before continuing, visibly frustrated.

"No, that's not what I meant, and you know it!" Her voice rises in volume during her outburst, and she breathes in and out a few times until she begins again, calmer. "You bring me to a charming restaurant, order my preferred wine, and recommend my two favorite meals. Why are you doing all of this?"

He gazes at her, taking in how lovely she looks in candlelight, and cannot lie to himself anymore. He wishes he could tell her the truth. He wants to grab the hand sitting on the table next to his, entwine their fingers, and explain to her how he feels. The shy, _stunning_ woman staring across at him has awoken something in him, that long-dormant _sentiment_ that many would argue he is incapable of feeling.

He has tried for far too long to ignore these emotions, both for his sake and his best friend's. Falling for John's girl would mean ripping a knife through their friendship, inflicting too much damage for him to repair it. It would ruin the most significant relationship he has ever had.

The evidence of his failure is glaring him in the face, taunting him with her warm brown eyes and soft pink lips. Sherlock thinks he would hate her if he didn't care so _bloody_ much.

"Sherlock? Are you alright? You… you don't have to answer. I was just wondering…." Her coy voice brings him back to the current situation, and he rapidly comes up with an excuse. Anything to hide the disloyal affection he holds in his heart for the woman in front of him.

"John was busy tonight, so I brought you here to celebrate your achievement. Nothing more. I assumed you would rather go out than spend your evening home alone."

"Oh, so it's because of John," she says, her tone thoughtful as if she is just now solving a mystery she has puzzled over for weeks. "Well, thank you. This is nice." Her hunched posture and tired smile indicate that "nice" does not hold a positive connotation in this instance. He sees what he interprets as disappointment in her eyes and looks back down at his meal instead of replying.

The pair quickly finishes their food, engaging in awkward and stilted conversation for the remainder of the evening, each refusing to meet the other's eyes.

Sherlock understands that something has irrevocably altered between them but cannot decipher what it is.

He accompanies her back to her flat, the return journey much less amiable than the previous. "Thank you again, Sherlock. I had a nice time."

She uses that word again, "nice", and he instinctively knows that she is lying for his benefit. He answers as if he believes her, however, because he desperately wants to save some semblance of this… whatever it is they have between them. "You are welcome. I did too, Molly Hooper." He watches her for a minute as she struggles to find the key to her flat. She finds it and begins the process of opening the door.

In an attempt to further salvage his friendship with his pathologist ( _Friend? Acquaintance? Coworker?_ – none of the terms seem adequate), he leans down to kiss her cheek, just as she finishes unlocking her door and turns her head to look at him.

Their lips meet for the briefest of moments, although the kiss lasts long enough for the detective to note how pleasant her warm mouth feels pressed against his own. He swiftly pulls away a few inches, but he is still close enough to see her pulse beating rapidly in her throat. Her face holds a shocked expression, one he is certain matches his own.

He fights down the urge to pull her to him again for a more thorough, enjoyable encounter. If he touches her again, he does not know if he will be able to stop. He stutters out an apology and leaves her standing on her doorstep. He senses her eyes watching him until he turns the corner, out of sight.


	6. Comparisons

Sherlock avoids St. Bart's hospital for the next two weeks, declining all cases on the slight chance that he may need to visit the morgue. If he sees her again, sees her beautiful doe eyes staring up at him like they did after the _incident_ (he refuses to think of their kiss in any other terms), he fears he will be unable to control himself and will confess his feelings without any regard to the consequences.

Instead, he lounges around Baker Street in his dressing gown, beginning experiments before quickly growing bored and throwing them across the room. John has taken to carrying his gun around with him at all times after discovering the detective attempting to murder the wall.

Sherlock's relationship with his flat mate is strained as well, and he observes the doctor gazing at him intently on several occasions. John has begun spending the nights elsewhere with greater frequency. Sherlock overlooks this detail because he will drive himself insane if he dwells on it.

Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of his voluntary exile is the hours he now has to reflect on his situation. He spends more time in front of his bedroom mirror, unable to stop himself from making comparisons to his best friend. _What_ _is it about John that makes him so appealing to Molly? Why aren't I?_ These questions taunt him at all hours, demanding his concentration.

From a purely physical standpoint, Sherlock knows that he and John are on fairly equal terms. Women accost both of them with great regularity, and, if John has more dating experience than the detective, it is because he is more receptive to their attentions. In fact, sometimes Sherlock thinks that his blatant disregard for romantic attachment makes him _more_ attractive to the opposite sex.

On an intellectual scale, Sherlock far outweighs his friend, and, although he considers himself a traitor for the thought, he wonders how Molly is content with someone whose intelligence is sub par to hers. When he notices himself thinking such horrible judgments about both his blogger and his pathologist, he turns away from his reflection in disgust and returns to his self-inflicted banishment on the sofa.

Although he would never do so out loud, Sherlock can admit his flaws. He lacks the social graces that most women desire in a partner, and the pace at which his mind works often results in cruel deductions of other people without consideration for their feelings. This is why his friendship with John works so well. The doctor was one of the first people to see that his coldness was a device to keep others from getting too close and to befriend him in spite of it, even pointing out when the detective went too far in his deductions.

Molly would never be so ruthless as to end a relationship with someone because his IQ is lower than hers, and John is extremely brilliant. People of average intelligence do not have medical degrees, after all. Yes, his intellect pales in comparison to Sherlock's, but everyone's does. Besides, Molly's kind and gentle nature fit more logically with John's friendly, protective demeanor than with Sherlock's taciturn, sarcastic one. This final notion leads Sherlock to conclude that Molly would be happier with John, and he decides to expel his sentiment towards her, for all of their sakes.

* * *

On the Saturday two weeks after his shared dinner with Molly, Sherlock is lying on his side, facing the back of the sofa, when he hears his flat mate enter the room. He stubbornly remains in his position, turning to face the other man only when John sighs heavily, fed up with Sherlock's behavior.

"Sherlock, you need to get out of the flat. You've been moping around for days."

He scoffs in indignation before retorting. "I do not _mope_. I simply have no inclination to leave. My experiments require all of my focus." He twists around so that his back is facing John once more, making it clear that the conversation is over. John is having none of this and continues.

"This is ridiculous, Sherlock! You haven't spent more than an hour on any one project before giving up and moving on to something else! You aren't eating, and, on the rare occasions you do sleep, it's only for an hour or two at a time! What the _bloody hell_ is going on with you?!"

Sherlock does not deny the accusations thrown at him. His racing mind cannot concentrate on one thing for too long, and eating reminds him painfully of the last time he saw Molly. His mind conjures images of her smiling up at him over her pasta, unknowingly coercing him into accepting his feelings.

Sleeping, however, is the most excruciating, because when his body does give in to its need for rest, visions of her haunt his dreams. The pride in her eyes when she completes a particularly grueling autopsy, her laugh when he amuses her with one of his morbid jokes, her lips…. Good heavens, her _lips._ The way they felt –

 _No!_ He forces back the sensations flooding his brain. He will not allow such treacherous thoughts while his best mate is tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for an answer to his question.

"I told you before, John. I'm fine!" he finally responds, sitting up to look the doctor in the eye. John throws his hands in the air, tired of trying to understand the 35-year-old adolescent in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, intending to walk out the door, when he pivots and tries a different tactic.

"Mary mentioned that you two met the other evening. What did you think of her?" John asks, staring at his friend closely, ostensibly trying to gauge his reaction.

"Miss Morstan proved herself an adequate companion for Molly." This is the highest praise Sherlock has given an acquaintance since Molly Hooper crashed into his life.

A smile illuminates the blonde's face, and he resumes with more confidence. "I'm going out for drinks tonight with Mary and Molly. Perhaps you'd like to join us? You might actually enjoy yourself," he asserts, although his tone indicates that he does not expect Sherlock to accept his offer.

Even so, Sherlock observes the hopeful look on his flat mate's face, and the nervous way he is clenching his hands. The manner in which he phrased the invitation strikes the detective as odd. It is almost as if he is…. _Ah. Everything makes sense now._

"Playing match-maker now, John? I would have never mistaken you for the sort." Sarcasm drips from his mouth, and John flinches.

He quickly recovers and mutters,"I just… I think she'd be good for you, Sherlock. Open you up a bit."

Sherlock can acknowledge that he admires Mary Morstan, but he does not believe he could survive watching Molly and John on an actual date. True, the tenderest act he has witnessed between the two is a kiss on the cheek, but even the witty Miss Morstan could only distract him for so long.

"I told you before, John. Relationships are not my area. I have no interest in the mating rituals of lesser human beings." He is not lying, even if he is not being completely truthful either. Surely, if he were better versed in the intricacies of courtship, he would not suffer such strong emotions towards a woman who is dating someone else.

"Fine!" John throws his arms up once again in a gesture of forfeit and walks to the door. As he opens it, however, he glances back at his friend one last time, an unmistakable expression of pity in his eyes. "You might think sentiment is pointless, Sherlock, but you're still the one lying around the flat, alone, on a Saturday night."

Sherlock watches as he closes the door behind him before moving his fingers up to his mouth in his thinking stance. _How can I possibly explain to John that_ sentiment _is the very reason I cannot accompany them? He would never forgive me._

The melancholy man retreats into his mind palace. He swiftly walks down to the basement, only a flickering bulb on a string lighting his path. There, in the far back corner, is a room he has avoided for weeks. He carefully unlocks it, the key dangling on a chain over his heart, and steps inside, ignoring the sense of "home" he experiences.

He allows himself a few moments with his memories and emotions before beginning the task of emptying the room. He tries to convince himself that the void he feels at the loss of everything _Molly_ is bearable if it can salvage his friendship with John.

Just as he shuts the door on the now vacant room and locks it behind him, the door to 221B opens hesitantly. He brings himself out of his mind palace and addresses the intruder. "John, I told you I have no wish to leave the flat this evening."

"I'm not John," a quiet voice answers, and Sherlock's eyes fly open. He stares up at the woman who has tormented him for the better part of a year. "We need to talk, Sherlock."


	7. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, all is revealed.

" _We need to talk."_

She does not elaborate, hesitantly shuffling her feet in the way he finds so endearing. Sherlock closes his eyes at her words, allowing the gentle timbre of her voice to wash over him. The memories he had so carefully deleted come cascading back, and he wonders if he will ever forget her. ( _You know the answer to that_ , that part of his mind, _Sentiment_ , counters.) He loses himself for a moment in the sensations of Molly.

When he finally looks at her again, she is staring down at him as though she cannot fully believe the sight before her, the World's Only Consulting Detective reduced to a man brooding around his flat half-naked. Her eyes linger on the dark circles under his, and Sherlock knows inherently that she sees far more in those tiny bruises than a lack of sleep.

He, in turn, observes her dark jeans and fitted jumper. Her long, dark hair flows down her back in waves. Clearly, she has dropped by 221B to check up on him on her way to meet John and Mary at the pub. "John said you were going out tonight. I did not expect to see you here."

"Oh, well, I might meet up with Mary and him later." She opens her mouth to continue speaking, before stopping herself and striding towards the kitchen instead. "I'll just make us some tea!" she calls into the sitting room. He hears clanking as she prepares the beverage but does not offer assistance, understanding that she needs a moment alone before confronting him with whatever she has come to say.

Molly finally returns, placing a tray laden with a kettle and two mugs on the table in front of him and taking a seat in John's armchair. She takes several deep breaths before starting. "We need to discuss what happened the other night."

"I have no idea to what you are referring," he petulantly replies, glaring at his hands. He _cannot_ meet her gaze. He has chosen to let her go, and her beautiful brown orbs would only soften his resolve.

Molly sighs quietly. "Fine. This is about John, right?"

He snorts out a bitter laugh. "About –? Of course this is about John! He's my best friend, Molly, and these emotions are hardly appropriate!"

She stands up and takes a step toward him, her small hand hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm, before drawing back at his expression and resuming her position in the chair. "Feelings are nothing to ashamed about, Sherlock! I'm sure John would understand if you just talk to him –"

"I sincerely doubt that, Molly!" he cuts her off. He finally glances up at her and detests the sympathy he sees in her eyes. "He will hate me forever."

"Just explain to him! Even though he doesn't feel the same way about you, I know John would be considerate and listen to what you have to say!"

This last sentence draws him up short. The detective is certain the repetitive opening and closing of his mouth causes him to resemble a fish. He replays her side of the conversation, ice blue eyes narrowing when he finally understands. "Molly, I think you are misinterpreting the depth of my relationship with John."

"But I thought…."

"That I harbor secret, romantic feelings for my flat mate? Really, Molly, you should stop reading those trashy gossip magazines. They are hardly reliable news sources." Sarcasm laces his tone, further emphasized by the roll of his eyes.

She gawks at him for several moments. "But you always tense up when I mention him…. And you turn your head when I so much as kiss John on the cheek. Why would you do that if you weren't in love with him?" He observes her pride in her deduction, and now she is hurt by his blatant rejection of her theory.

"Although I acknowledge I would jump off a building for my best friend if required, my actions have a simpler explanation." He trails off, uncomfortable with where the conversation is going.

"Which is…?" she prompts him.

"Obviously, I am struggling with inappropriate thoughts for his girlfriend."

It is the first time he has admitted out loud the effect of the woman in front of him. He deduces two possible reactions to his confession. In the first, Molly, shocked and completely betrayed, yells at him, saying she never wishes to see him again before storming out of his life forever. In the other, however, she throws herself into his arms and snogs him furiously, before ringing John and ending their relationship. He cannot deny that the second scenario would be far more pleasurable, even as it would terminate his friendship.

Molly, however, has evidently not been educated about the correct responses when confronted by a man confessing feelings for her. Confusion clouds her face before she asks, "Mary?"

"What does Miss Morstan have to do with anything?" Now, both occupants of 221B wear matching expressions of utter befuddlement.

The pair stares off into space for some time, both entranced in their own thoughts, trying to piece the puzzle together. "You're in love with Mary?" she finally replies, a touch of betrayal in her voice.

"Of course not! I was referring to you!" After months of concealing the truth, he blurts it out in anger, clearly irritated with her lack of comprehension.

Her beautiful eyes widen to almost comical proportions, reminding Sherlock of a china doll. "Wait, you thought –? So then –? Oh!" She smiles to herself, a brilliant smile that diminishes his current annoyance. He still has not solved this particular mystery.

"Molly, do you intend to actually finish one of your sentences? My deductive powers are extraordinary, but even I cannot read minds." He turns back to Molly, who is now giggling hysterically. He watches her warily, wondering if the woman has gone insane. If by some chance they can fix whatever has broken between them, he really does not wish to find another pathologist. Romantic feelings aside, she really is one of the best in her field.

She pulls herself together long enough to reply. "We've both been exceptionally blind. I thought you were in love with John, while you thought I was…." She chuckles again. "John is like my older brother, so dating him would be extremely awkward. Besides, he's been crazy about Mary since I introduced them several months ago."

Sherlock feels part of the pain that has clenched around his heart, since that dinner weeks ago, relax. "John is dating… Mary?"

"Yes. From what she has told me, it's getting pretty serious. They really hit it off one night after John walked me home from your flat. That's actually one of the reasons I came here tonight. To give them some time alone. John was complaining about you, and Mary convinced me to come speak with you tonight. At first I thought she was trying to get rid of me. Now, I wonder if she wasn't attempting to push us together." She begins laughing again, and this time Sherlock joins in.

He recalls once noting how Molly disrupts his deductive abilities. Apparently, she has obscured his judgment for far longer than he realized.

He pushes himself off of the sofa and carefully walks to Molly. Her giggles cease when his hand grabs hers and pulls her to her feet, before gliding up her arm to rest on her shoulder. She raises her head to meet his gaze, her pretty eyes now full of hope and something ( _Longing?_ ) that he cannot quite name.

"Miss Morstan is far more observant than the average woman. I believe she suits John very well." He gathers his nerve for a minute. "So you and John are not…?" he drifts off, hardly daring to trust his interpretation of the situation. He does not believe that his heart can handle another disappointment.

"No, I'm not seeing anyone at the moment." He lets out the sigh that had caught in his chest at her statement and slowly, ever so slowly, slides his right arm up from her shoulder, simultaneously shifting towards her. He senses more than hears her sharp intake of breath as his violinist fingers graze her pulse point. He makes a note of her rapid heart beat, pounding in time with his, before stopping to cup her cheek just beneath her jaw.

She is trembling underneath his touch, and her pupils are blown black, only a thin ring of dark brown visible around the edges. Sherlock wrestles down the sense of masculine pride overwhelming him at the knowledge that _he_ is affecting her this way. _Not John. Not some other inconsequential idiot. Me._ He supposes she observes the same reactions in him. He leans forward a bit more, stopping just short of pushing his lips to hers, waiting for some sign of acceptance from the shaking woman.

He detects the anticipation in her body before she whispers, "Oh, for heaven's sake!" and moves the final millimeter to press their mouths together. One of her hands reaches up to tangle itself in his dark curls, the other placed lightly on his chest, left bare by his open dressing gown.

At the skin to skin contact, a flip switches inside the detective, and he wraps his free arm around her waist, pulling her closer still. If he was a fanciful man, he might proclaim how perfect her body feels squashed against his, as though they were two puzzle pieces built to fit together. As it is, his mind is currently preoccupied with Molly's thin (but very, _very_ talented) lips, presently attached to his neck.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Sherlock's mind stops racing and allows him to focus exclusively on the woman in his arms. As she finds a particularly sensitive spot below his ear, he briefly reflects that, perhaps, sentiment is not so ghastly after all, before pulling her face back up to his.

* * *

Later, they are tangled together on the sofa, Sherlock's hand idly playing with Molly's hair. Their cold tea is still sitting on the table, long forgotten by the couple. They have been exchanging lazy kisses for the past hour, basking contentedly in each other's presence.

Molly's delicate fingers fiddle with the edges of his dressing gown. She is stalling, attempting to muster the courage to articulate something that has bothered her since his confession. "Spit it out Molly. What do you want to say?" he quips, his harsh words contradicted by the pure affection in his tone. She happily pecks him on the cheek before replying.

"You really thought John and I were together?" He nods. "That's why you ran away every time something happened between us? Your loyalty to him is very sweet, but I wonder if I should be offended that you think I'd cheat on my boyfriend." She playfully slaps his chest before he takes her hand and entwines their fingers.

"I knew you wouldn't." He places a kiss on the back of her hand. "That's why I have avoided you. It hurt too much to be near you, knowing you would never be mine, and I was not confident that I could control myself if I saw you again." He accentuates this confession with another kiss, this time on her lovely lips.

She reciprocates unreservedly for a moment before drawing back. "It would never have worked between John and me, anyway. I happen to be infatuated with his flat mate. Surely you noticed how I would flush bright red when you complimented me or smirked in that infuriating way you always do. And don't even pretend like you didn't notice my physical reaction to your purple shirt. You wore it far too often for it to be for anything other than my benefit," she teases him. "How could you not see the way I felt about you?"

"Well, there's always something." He gives her his _infuriating_ smirk before capturing her mouth once more.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is amused at Sherlock's expense.

Sherlock awakes the next morning to discover a soft weight pressing down on his chest. He lifts his head from his pillow and looks at the sleeping form of Molly Hooper, sighs escaping from her peaceful face every so often. He smirks at the thought that she is dreaming of him, and that he is partly responsible for those delightful little sounds.

He notices the time and knows she will need to leave soon or be late for her shift at St. Bart's. Although his grin widens at the prospect of distracting her enough to cause her to forego work altogether, her dedication to her job is one of the many things he finds so endearing about the small woman in his arms.

He places a gentle kiss to her temple before moving his mouth to her ear. "Wake up, Molly," he murmurs, a strand of hair fluttering as it is hit by his warm breath. She shifts slightly in his hold, a small smile appearing on her lips.

"Five more minutes," she replies softly, even as her eyes open to meet his. Her smile grows as she remembers the previous evening's confessions. (And the events that had occurred after them.) Their lips meet, moving slowly and passionately together, for a few minutes before she reluctantly sits up.

"I should go. I have to stop by my flat to change clothes before my shift in an hour."

"I know," he unenthusiastically agrees, following her into the kitchen. "Molly, I realize this is all very new, but I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to dinner this evening. And before you ask, yes, this would be a date."

She beams at him before capturing his mouth enthusiastically. Sherlock loses himself in the kiss for a period before drawing back a few millimeters. "Can I take that as a 'yes'?"

"Of course I'd love to, Sherlock!" They wear matching expressions of joy while Molly gathers her shoes and prepares to leave.

He arranges to meet her after her shift and watches as she practically skips down the steps to the front door. She stops and waves at him sweetly one last time before shutting the door and heading back to her flat. Sherlock lies down on the sofa and begins organizing Molly's room in his mind palace once again. He needs to make space for the most recent memories of his pathologist, smiling to himself as they replay in his head.

He is still grinning like a fool when John Watson arrives back at 221B half an hour later. The doctor stares at his flat mate, taking in the sappy expression on his face and the messy state of his hair, before matching Sherlock's smirk with one of his own.

"Last night went well, then? Mary said I should probably stay with her. Not that it took much convincing from her end," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

"The exceptional Mary Morstan is as astute as ever. Regardless of my opinion on the subject, she really will make a fine wife for you, John."

"How did you –? I just began thinking of proposing this morning!"

Sherlock gives him an expression John knows only too well, which clearly says _Please! Did you forget to whom you are speaking?_ John waves this off and looks at his friend curiously, trying to make sense of something. "What is it, John? I do not have all day to wait for you to find your words."

"It's just…. I ran into Molly as I was leaving Mary's flat this morning. As soon as she saw me, she burst into hysterical giggles before rushing into her bedroom. What could you possibly have told her about me that would cause such a reaction? You didn't mention that case we worked where I was convinced a ghost was involved, did you?!"

"No. Well, yes. But that was weeks ago. You will be happy to know that Molly was not laughing at _you_ , but rather an assumption _I_ made that _involved_ you."

John continues to stare pointedly at him. Sherlock feels his ears growing red at the reminder of his flawed deduction, and, from the way John's eyebrows shoot up in intrigued surprise, he notices his friend's embarrassment as well. He continues to gape at his flat mate until the detective lets out a dramatic sigh. Clearly, he will not let the matter go until Sherlock explains himself.

"Fine! ImistakenlybelievedyouandMollyweredating," he mumbles out quickly, smiling innocently at his friend.

"What did you say? I couldn't understand you." Sherlock glares at John, who is finding far too much amusement in his discomfort.

Sherlock huffs in annoyance before grudgingly repeating himself. "I mistakenly believed that you and Molly were dating."

John gawks at him for an uncomfortably long moment before doubling over in laughter. He clutches at his stomach, holding on to the arm of the sofa for balance, and Sherlock wonders if he is actually going to fall over.

Sherlock's glare returns, and John attempts to compose himself before erupting into a new cycle of chortles at Sherlock's expression.

"Really, John, is my mistake so entertaining? Your actions towards Molly were always respectful and protective, and you treated her the same way you explained to me that one treats a significant other. I simply misread the evidence and came to an incorrect conclusion. I fail to see what about that is so hilarious."

The blogger chuckles quietly for a few seconds more before taking a deep breath. "For the most intelligent man I have ever known, you can be astronomically oblivious when it comes to sentimental matters. You can deduce a person's history from a single glance, but you missed my obvious motivation for bringing Molly Hooper to the flat."

Sherlock stares at him blankly, silently prompting the doctor to continue. "I thought the two of you were perfect for each other. I mean, Molly is a little odd, choosing to work with dead bodies all day, but so are you. You both have similar senses of humor and will not stop until a mystery is solved. So, I brought her with me when I knew that you would be home. But then you treated her so poorly, and I thought it was hopeless until you apologized. I noticed a spark between the two of you."

"I kept bringing her around and will admit was a bit optimistic once you started spending all of your spare time with her, either at the flat or St. Bart's. When Mary confided in me about your dinner engagement, we assumed the two of you were secretly dating and just hadn't told us yet!"

Sherlock's head jerks up sharply at this, causing John to stop talking. "And here Molly thought I was struggling with my romantic feelings for you," the detective says quietly, much to the blogger's surprise.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment before grinning and breaking out in a fresh round of laughter.

Sherlock does not know how long they sit there, merrily snickering at all the wrongful reasoning that has led to this point, before John speaks up once more. "I do have one more question, though. Last night, you mocked me for 'playing match-maker,' as you so eloquently put it. If you thought I was seeing Molly, who did –?" His voice falters when he sees the sheepish look on Sherlock's face. "Mary?!" He chuckles one more time before gazing at his best friend.

"I'm happy for you, mate. Molly is one of my best friends, and you deserve a partner like her, someone who doesn't judge you for your flaws, but loves you because of them. For a while when you were avoiding her, Mary and I thought we might have to lock the two of you in a closet somewhere."

"Once again, Mary proves herself worthy of your affections. She convinced Molly to confront me last night. Please give her my gratitude for her assistance."

John smiles at the mention of his girlfriend. "Maybe you could tell her yourself. The four of us should go out together."

Sherlock ponders this and decides the notion is not as appalling as it would have been previously. "Molly and I made plans for this evening. Assuming she agrees, perhaps we could all have dinner tonight."

"I'm sure the women would love that idea. Like I said last night, I think Molly is good for you."

Sherlock grins and stands up to stride to his room. "Get dressed, John. I have some experiments that require my attention at Bart's. My absence has resulted in my neglecting them, although I am certain Molly has continued to watch them for me."

John mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "Experiments, my arse," before disappearing into his own bedroom. Sherlock simply smiles as he chooses a suit from his closet and begins to prepare himself for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think? Leave a comment and let me know. Your words always make my day!


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